Encounters with the Woman
by damedeleslac
Summary: Or the five times John Watson almost met Irene Adler and the first time he did.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I have a cat and a room full of books. Almost everything else belongs to someone else. Recognisable characters, TV shows, movies, etc belong to their creators (in some cases otherwise known as god), producers, directors, etc.

* * *

.

.

.

Encounters With The Woman.

.

.

.

Or

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.

.

The Five Times John Watson Almost Met Irene Adler

And The First Time He Did.

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* * *

One...

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It takes Sherlock rummaging around in John's coat pockets for him to realise that there was something he should have noticed. Nothing's missing, but two things have been added.

The first thing is a piece of string.

"Wool actually." Sherlock gave him a '_are you really that stupid_' look. John's getting used to that look, "Real wool, hand spun. Knitted into an object, taken apart and then glued to something else."

"So… someone put hair from a child's toy into my pocket?" He resignedly put his phone into Sherlock's out stretched hand, waiting for him to finish texting, "Have you got a theory how it got in my coat? Or why?"

Sherlock has taken the other thing, peering at it.

"Pomegranate," He held it up to the light, showing John the lollypop, "With a mint centre."

The bright green surrounded by the even brighter pink sparks a memory. .. Of a scarlet coloured cloche hat and a green stone pendant.

"There was a woman," John frowned, "In the street; we bumped into each other…"

Sherlock grinned. "Irene Adler likes things that belong to rich men and detests children being murdered. The wool is from the head of the doll that belonged to Grace Weston."

Sherlock threw a newspaper at him. The headline proclaimed 'Heirlooms Stolen'.

"You think Sir Davenport killed a six year old girl?"

"No." The '_stupid look_' was back, "I know his lawyer did it. The items Miss Adler… appropriated... were kept in the lawyer's office, in the safe. Where he is also keeping the doll. As a trophy."

John nodded, taking his phone from Sherlock's hand. "Does she do that often?"

"Do what?"

"Drop things in other people's pockets for you to find?"

"No…" Sherlock twirled the lollypop between his fingers, "Not often."

"And the lollypop?"

"I'm… not sure…"

"I thought you knew the reason behind everything."

"Miss Adler is not _everything_."

.

.

.

Two…

.

The woman almost knocks John off his feet, running past him down the stairs to reach the door. It's one of the times John wishes he still used a cane, just so he could trip people up.

Sherlock's in the flat, barely. He's leaning half way out a window, yelling at someone on the street.

"Bring those back! You little-"

John leans not nearly as far out the window. The woman; who'd been running down the stairs, turned and looked up.

Irene Adler has an amused smile on her face, the same green pendant around her neck and a pair of Sherlock's scarfs in her hand. _So that's where they keep going_.

She waved the scarves in the air, yelling. "Another time Dr. Watson." And struck a flirtatious, teasing pose for Sherlock's benefit, "I always hide them in the same place _darling_. If you can find it, you can get them back."

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Three…

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John sat back, rubbing at his eyes.

Sally Donavan did the same, pausing the footage from the security tape. "'Bout time for a break anyway. We should see how the Inspector and your… colleague… are doing."

"He's probably got it all figured out." John opened the door for her, "Waiting to see if we mere mortals can work it out for ourselves."

"Unless the Inspector's strangled him…" Sally gave him a nasty sort of smile, "We would've heard it if he'd shot him."

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#

.

They can hear Sherlock yelling inside Lestrade's office.

"The theft had nothing to do with the murder!"

"Five thousand! Taken from the dead man's office. Most would call that motive."

"Most people are not me-"

"Thank goodness for that." Sally murmured.

"-The theft was opportunistic, enacted by a young woman. The_ Murderer_ is a slightly older man, the nightclub owner's ex-lover. It is not a crime of passion though; he's been planning it for a long time, you'll find that the murder weapon is a bottle of extremely poor quality vodka. Hidden in the air vent at the back of the store room."

"So who's the young woman? The one who _stole_ the money?"

"Irene Adler."

Sally rolled her eyes. "Figment of his bloody imagination, he means."

"Why?" John frowned.

"She doesn't exist. We've found Rena Adley's, Ilene Adler's and Irene Addison's. None of them match the description _he's_ given us." Sally shrugged, "He pulls her out every now and then, like a drug induced hallucination."

.

#

.

John limped back to the room where they'd been watching the security tape footage. Sally followed him with a frown. The good doctor rarely limped these days, but when he did…

"Are you ok?"

"Fine." His attention is back on the grainy, blurry, but strangely, coloured images. They'd been expecting black and white.

It's an hour before he sees it. "There." He pauses the tape, pointing at the blob of colour on a form emerging from the owner's office, "She was there…"

"Who was there?" Sally squinted at the TV, as if it would make the picture clearer, "How can you tell anything on these bloody tapes?"

"Right height, right build, right necklace," John tapped the screen, "That's Irene Adler."

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Four…

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The invitations had been delivered by Mycroft's secretary.

Two tickets to a charity event for the Honourable Sherlock Holmes (plus one) and Dr. John Watson (plus one).

Sherlock had resisted going until John announced he was taking Sarah and wouldn't it be a lovely to have an evening uninterrupted by Sherlock. Who arrived in a tux he didn't have to rent and without a plus one. And promptly alienated every other person there.

Sarah excuses herself, stating a need to _refresh her makeup_.

.

#

.

"I've annoyed her."

"Yes, you have."

"If we hadn't been here, she would have slapped me."

"Probably."

"Mycroft would not have been happy."

"Good thing she left then."

"Not really. Annoying Mycroft would have made my day."

.

#

.

"Have you seen who Sherlock's dancing with?" Sarah passed John a glass of champagne, as a small peace offering.

"Sherlock dances?" John's not sure if he believes her, taking the drink with a '_you left me alone with him_' expression, "I wouldn't have thought dance steps were important enough to remember?"

"He doesn't, but I don't think it matters to her." Sarah held up her phone, showing John the photo she'd taken. Sherlock tripping over his own feet and Irene Adler, looking poised and regal,  
"For your blog?"

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Five…

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Mrs Hudson waved a cup of tea in front of John's nose. "What are you doing down here?" She produced a plate of biscuits, "If you've misplaced your key dear, Sherlock could've let you in."

"He's a little… occupied, Mrs Hudson."

A loud breathy moan reached the bottom of the stairs.

Mrs Hudson went bright pink.

"_Yes… uh… Sher- oh!"_

John went the same shade of pink as Mrs Hudson. And stood suddenly, opening the front door. "I've remembered that I need to do some shopping Mrs Hudson… Was there anything that you needed?"

"_YES…uh… oh g-d!"_

"Let me get my purse." She hurried into her own flat.

"_Uuuh… SHERLOCK!"_

"Perhaps we'll take a walk in the park first Mrs Hudson?"

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First.

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"Dr. Watson? ...It's Andrea Sato from St Bart's A&E. One of your patients was admitted in a serious, but stable condition."

"Which patient?" John grabbed his jacket.

"A Rena Adley."

John stopped. "I don't know any Rena Adley's."

"She has one of your cards…"

"You said that she's stable?" John found his keys, "What sort of injuries does she have?"

"She's dehydrated, there's bruising to her face, a couple of broken fingers, respiratory infection and a burn that's infected."

"What sort of burn?"

"It looks like a branding that went bad; we get those sometimes, it's usually some kind of symbol, but this one looks like two letters; J and M. It's pretty bad."

"What sort of personal effects does she have with her?" He'd given a few cards to Sherlock's _irregulars_; she might be one of them.

"Not much, it's all pretty dirty. And torn or broken. She's going to have to get new everything." Andrea hmm-ed, "This scarf is spotless… And monogrammed… S.H…"

John stopped, the door hitting his heels.

_I-Rena Adley-r… J… M… S.H on a spotless scarf…_

"Put her in a private room and don't let anyone in unless it's absolutely necessary. I'll be there as soon as I can."

.

#

.

Lestrade nodded at a room across the corridor. "That's really Holmes' mysterious Irene Adler?"

"Yes." John was watching the same room, "Sherlock's mysterious Moriaty had her locked in a cellar."

"Where he broke her fingers and put a brand on her?"

"I think it's the Arch Nemesis' version of hair pulling."

"That's a scary thought." Lestrade sighed, "How's he taking it?"

"However a high functioning sociopath deals with these things." John shrugged, "Did you know she steals his scarves?"

"More hair pulling?" Lestrade almost managed a smile.

"One-up man… woman-ship. It confuses him."

"Sherlock doesn't get confused. He gets…"

"Called a freak, flirted with and tried to be made more human. She doesn't do that. It confuses him."

"So, she's his… friend?"

John gave him a dry look. "_With benefits_."

Lestrade's attention shot back to where Sherlock Holmes was alone with Irene Adler.

"I thought…" Lestrade was starting to look a bit flustered.

"Told me he was married to his job."

"…Um…Moriaty…?"

"Does not appreciate Sherlock's attention on other things."

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#

.

Irene Adler looks too thin and too pale to be real. She's asleep; thanks to a mild sedative, and Sherlock hasn't left her side since he arrived at the hospital.

"I'll need your gun." He might have been asking for a cup of tea. "Even you shouldn't have to ask why."

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* * *

_Continued..._

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* * *

Author's note: Thank you to the people who took the time to beta this for me. Especially kaazei, who is wonderful.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I have a cat and a room full of books. Almost everything else belongs to someone else. Recognisable characters, TV shows, movies, etc belong to their creators (in some cases otherwise known as god), producers, directors, etc.

* * *

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Second.

* * *

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Irene Adler stays at the flat for four weeks.

She leaves the hospital, AMA, with only the clothes on her back, the prescribed pain killers and antibiotics and John Watson taking responsibility for her continued care.

Not!Anthea is waiting for them to arrive, under orders from Mycroft to make sure that Miss Adler has everything she might require and is comfortable. The food shopping's been done and there are several bags of clothing for Irene to choose from.

_She rejects the skirts and anything with short sleeves, choosing pants and long sleeved shirts, utilitarian underwear and a pair of over sized, face obscuring sun glasses; in greys, blacks and dark blues. Then they throw Not!Anthea unceremoniously, out on her ass._

_While she's sleeping, John goes out and buys her a hat. It's stupid and glittery and bright yellow. And under different circumstances, she'd try it on and laugh at herself and find somewhere just as ridiculous to wear it. But for now it hangs from the back of Sherlock's favourite chair, waiting for him to come home. _

Sherlock brings shoes. He hasn't been back to the flat in almost a week and Irene has been moping about for the last three days, wearing a pair of hospital slippers, as she'd refused all of Not!Anthea's offerings.

"_You're not Irene Adler," Sherlock murmurs, slipping glittery yellow things onto her feet, "Without the right pair of shoes."_

.

#

_.  
_

Irene gets just as bored as Sherlock. But someone, John suspects, hasn't allowed her to be idle. The books are alphabetised, the laundry collected and sorted and given to John to get him out of the way, the fridge expunged of Sherlock's experiments, the floors vacuumed and washed, the spider webs and dust banished.

While she _keeps busy_ she sings. And more than once John has returned home to find Mrs Hudson standing on the steps, listening to Irene Adler's nightingale voice.

_She has a sixth sense when it comes to Sherlock though, and never sings where he might hear her. _

After she finishes cleaning the flat she picks the lock to 221c Baker Street and cleans there as well.

_After she leaves, there'll be a man around to sort out the damp and to do anything Mrs Hudson might need dealing with. And whatever money she manages to get him to accept will be donated to a children's charity._

Her cleaning spree uncovers Sherlock's drug stash, which Irene repackages into smaller doses and puts them in different places to where she found them. And if Sherlock ever gets desperate enough to abandon his nicotine patches, he'll have to buy a new packet of cigarettes.

_Irene finds six cigarettes in five partly crushed packages. She smokes four of them sitting on the window sill, keeping the smoke out of the flat. And doesn't worry that Moriaty might have a sniper watching her. Sherlock's spent less than twelve hours at the flat since she's arrived. His attention is back where Moriaty wants it._

_She smokes the last two when Mycroft visits. He simpers and sneers and wants her to leave. "For your own safety, my dear." Irene blows smoke in his face and advises Mycroft that if he relaxed a little, "The stick might actually fall out of your arse." Sherlock sends her flowers everyday for a week when he hears about it. _

.

#

_.  
_

Lestrade visits twice.

Once to have Irene sign the statement she'd given while still at St Bart's and to return the ring the hospital staff had to cut off one of her broken fingers to set it properly.

_Mrs Hudson finds a length of ribbon from somewhere and threads the ring onto it, to replace the green stone pendant the Moriaty had snatched from Irene's neck and crushed under his foot on the stone floor of the cellar. The stone pendant; in three small pieces and dozens of tiny ones, is now part of the 'Official Investigation'. Irene doesn't want it back._

Lestrade's second visit is to tell Sherlock to '_take a few weeks and get stuff sorted_'. _ The unspoken 'If the body of James Moriaty is found in the next few weeks half of Scotland Yard will be turning a blind eye and marking his death as suicide or accidental' earns the Detective Inspector a rare look of respect. _

.

#

_.  
_

_Mrs Hudson has the patience of a saint_.

Enforcing John and Irene's 'You can't leave the flat without finishing a cup of tea and two slices of toast first' rule when Sherlock's there in the mornings. 

_None of them are about to risk him fainting from lack of food at an inopportune moment._

Taking messages from the _irregulars_ in the evenings, giving the ones who will accept her hospitality cups of tea and rounds of sandwiches.

And spontaneously hugging Irene at all hours of the day. 

_The first time Irene Adler had been hugged by Mrs Hudson, she'd stood there stiffly until the older woman let go. The expression on Mrs Hudson's face had been one of 'Even Sherlock hugs better than you, poor girl. We'll have to fix that'._

_._

#

_.  
_

Irene sleeps; when she sleeps, in John's bed. It's warm and soft, where as Sherlock's is cold and hard.

_Mostly because Sherlock rarely uses it_.

She brings the blankets donated by Mrs Hudson and claims the side furthest from the door, refusing to let John sleep in the living room. 

_He stops worrying after the first couple of nights, Irene sleeps just as soundly as he does and the amount of space between them in the night is exactly the same in the morning. _

_Not that he's measured it of course..._

She sleeps in flannel pyjamas bought by Mrs Hudson. 

_They make her look younger, smaller, and more delicate than ever. _And John has to keep redoing _Age Mathematics_ in his head. _At first he'd put Irene's age somewhere between his own and Sherlock's. Subtracting or adding years the longer she stays. There was one day when 'Probably 30-something' had become 'maybe even 18 to 20-something' rather too quickly and John finally, diplomatically, settled on 'mid to late 20's, but doesn't look it', for his own peace of mind._

_._

#

_.  
_

Sarah drops by two or three times a week. She'd met Irene at the hospital, sitting with her, while Sherlock was heaven knows where and John was sleeping or doing a shift at the clinic. At first it was out of curiosity; and perhaps a little jealousy, wanting to know about the woman who could make Sherlock Holmes dance and get abducted by a madman for doing so, and had John Watson and a truly ominous looking man standing guard over her. Later, it was just to hold Irene's hand, so the other woman could sleep better.

Sarah brings dinner and DVD's to watch with John. Leaf tea and trashy Victorian romance novels for Mrs Hudson. Jigsaw puzzles and raspberry tarts for Irene. And an obscure scientific journal for Sherlock. She talks about normal things. The weather, the traffic, the government, how her nephew's are doing in school, that her sister really wants baby number four to be a girl, how she's really glad that she chose yellow wool when starting the blanket for baby number one and how she really wants to finish it before there's a baby number five, but since her knitting is atrocious and she lost the pattern, that she could barely follow years ago, it's about as possible as snow in July.

_Which is when Sherlock tells them the exact probability of such an atmospheric event._

_._

_#_

_.  
_

Sherlock looks like he hasn't slept or eaten in the past two weeks and the route he took back to the flat involved several chimneys, the Thames and possibly a sewer. Or three.

Irene moves first, leaving the table to take hold of Sherlock's sleeve and gently leading the slightly swaying consulting detective toward the bathroom. John had put his hand on Sarah's, silently asking her to stay put. When they hear the shower running, he glances at Mrs Hudson; who rolls her eyes and mutters something about being the landlady and not the house keeper, but goes and puts the kettle on anyway.

There's toast and tea waiting when Irene and Sherlock emerge, all bright and clean, their hair still a bit damp. Sherlock's in his usual pyjamas and silk dressing gown combination and Irene has abandoned Mrs Hudson's flannel contributions, changing into some practical and sociable silky pyjamas that she must have had stashed in somewhere in Sherlock's room. _Sexy lingerie is lost on Sherlock_.

He drinks the tea and devours the toast. Irene watches him like a hawk. And when John and Mrs Hudson act as if this sort of thing happens all the time, Sarah follows their example.

Sherlock pulls Irene over to the lounge, holding her close, twisting his fingers with hers and wrapping their arms around her, burying his head in the curve of her neck. _As if osmosis might work with memories and he won't have to ask..._

"Tell me everything."

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#

.

Irene starts with her hands, letting go of Sherlock's and holding them straight so he can see the shape of them. The right ring finger now twists, ever so slightly towards the little finger.

"He reminded me of a boy I once knew. Who threw tantrums when he thought people weren't paying him enough attention. And _Jamie_ can sound so childish, can't it?" She closes her hands, leaving four fingers up; right ring (twisting toward the little finger), right index (doesn't extend fully), left ring (distal flange tilts toward the middle finger), left little (hyper extended), little things that would go unnoticed by most, "I had to be sure."

_1. Moriaty does not like being ignored or thought of as a child. _

"He's intelligent, but not from a family where that's valued. Wouldn't surprise me if he had at least one abusive parent." Her hands are wrapped in his again and she brushed one against her cheek. _He knew exactly how to hit her_, "You are probably the most interesting person he's ever met. The person closest to being _HIM_ he's ever met."

_2. Moriaty is bored... And wants someone to play with._

"He's cruel and manipulative-"

"So am I."

Irene tilted her head back, looking up at him, sitting behind her. "Through disinterest and deduction. Not because you enjoy it or you want the control over people it gives you."

_3. Moriaty likes to be in control_

Sherlock has arranged their arms so he can trace the shiny new skin on her left arm with one of his thin fingers. "I can be very cruel."

_He really could._

Irene shivered, slowly closing and then opening her eyes. "Not like he is. You'd never strap a bomb to a child or an old lady. He was probably the boy at school who convinced one of the others to set the neighbour's cat on fire. And had, the poor kid thinking it was his own idea."

_Sherlock's would rather set Moriaty on fire._ "He didn't...?"

"I'm fine!" Irene digs her nails into his skin, making him wince and loosen his grip on her, "Like any poser in a Parkes Street suit could scare me."

_4. Moriaty wears the same suits as Mycroft._

"And anyway," Irene shrugged, "I'll be gone in a few days. Everything can go back to normal."

"Will I get a postcard this time?"

"You'll get the Doctor's bill for my arm."

"I'll send it on to Mycroft."

.

#

.

John watches them, just on the edge of his vision; feeling almost voyeuristic, but knowing that if Sherlock had wanted the conversation to be private, he would have arranged it that way.

Irene is almost a different person around him. 

_She's brighter somehow. She smiles and laughs more. She's calmer than John has seen in the last three weeks. But her actions and the words she uses are more precise. Like someone slacking off until the boss is in the room. And while she hadn't been bored before, she certainly isn't now._

Sherlock is different too.

_Like there's a list, somewhere in his sociopathic brain, of people he should monitor the overall well being of. It would only be a short list; Mummy, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, John, and he's only just realised that maybe Irene Adler's name should be on it. He's never even considered thinking of her like that before..._

Irene just rolls her eyes at him and threatens to add his coat or violin to her collection of scarves for even thinking such utter nonsense.

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#

.

Irene Adler leaves 221b Baker Street in the middle of the day, it's pouring with rain and when later asked about it, all Mrs Hudson will recall is an electric blue umbrella among the all the black ones.

Sherlock does not get a postcard.

Mycroft gets the bill.

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* * *

The end.

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* * *

Author's note: Thank you to the people who took the time to beta this for me. Especially kaazei, who is wonderful.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I have a cat and a room full of books. Almost everything else belongs to someone else. Recognisable characters, TV shows, movies, etc belong to their creators (in some cases otherwise known as god), producers, directors, etc.

.

* * *

.

.

.

Encounters With The Woman.

.

.

.

Or

.

.

.

The Five Times John Watson Almost Met Irene Adler

And The First Time He Did.

.

.

.

* * *

.

.

.

Third.

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.

.

* * *

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Lestrade can hear the two men having a _discussion_ from half way up the stairs. Not the actual words, but raised voices in varying tones of annoyance and anger.

_Definitely a discussion, John and Sherlock's fights tended to involve more yelling._

He finds them in the kitchen, each wearing latex gloves and holding either side of a small plastic container.

"It was a gift!" Sherlock seems determined to keep the container.

"It's evidence!" John tightened his grip on his side of the container, "You can't keep it."

"You're keeping the dog!" There's a very ugly puppy watching the scene from a box by John's feet.

"It's a dog! Not a BLOODY FINGER!"

_Now it's a fight._

Lestrade leant against the doorframe, the movement attracting the other men's attention, keeping his tone light. "Someone sent you a finger?"

John let go of the container, knocking a strangely gleeful Sherlock back against the fridge and picks up a letter from the table, holding it out to the Detective Inspector.

.

_Darling,_

_Managed to get hold of an object. Realised it was perfect for you, as it clashed with everything I own._

_Irene._

_xx_

_Ps John, sorry for the lack of notice, but I simply couldn't leave the poor thing where it was. Mrs H. will be amenable if you explain the situation._

_oo_

.

"Irene Adler sent you a finger?"

"Moriaty's right ring finger." There's an expression Lestrade's never seen on Sherlock's face before, "The ring you returned to her was removed from her right ring finger. Victorian, seven garnets, in a gold setting. It's the only thing I know her to be sentimental about." The look, Lestrade realises is pure wonder. Sherlock's eyes widen as he imagines the scene, "Enough so, that she tracked down Moriaty and showed him exactly how displeased she was by the damage it sustained at the hospital."

"By cutting off one of his fingers and sending it to you." Lestrade sighs, glancing from John to the kettle, "You can keep it 'til we've finished the tea. If you haven't deduced anything off of it by then, you don't deserve to keep it," _Talking to Sherlock as if he's five_, "Play nice and I've got a file for you to look at."

John, putting the kettle on, searching for clean mugs and watching Sherlock cast a final glare at the older man before flouncing back to the living room to look for John's camera, laughs. "She's being confusing again. He's not sure if he's jealous that she managed to find _his_ nemesis, angry that he hasn't managed to, or if he should be asking her to marry him."

Lestrade very, very carefully keeps his expression blank and his tone blanker. "Could you imagine the kids?"

John laughs again. "Tall, skinny, dark haired things, asking Uncle Mycroft the best way to take over the world."

Sherlock stopped in the kitchen doorway, grinning like a fool. "She used a pair of secateurs. Long handled for better leverage." He disappeared back into the living room exclaiming, "Brilliant!"

"Mummy, how did Daddy ask you to marry him?" John smirked into his teacup, "Well darling, I asked him by cutting off a man's finger with a pair of long handled secateurs and sending it to him. We got married the next week. He looked like a vampire and I wore all the scarves I'd ever stolen from him."

Lestrade laughs. "And your Uncle John, who thought it was extremely amusing, was the best man and bought a gun to the registry office, just in case the man with the missing finger decided to object to the event."

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* * *

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THE END

... really.

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Author's note: Thank you to the people who took the time to beta this for me. Especially kaazei, who is wonderful.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I have a cat and a room full of books. Almost everything else belongs to someone else. Recognisable characters, TV shows, movies, etc belong to their creators (in some cases otherwise known as god), producers, directors, etc.

* * *

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Third...

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There is a watch where Sherlock's violin should be.

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The watch, a fob watch to be precise, is old, almost the same age as the violin.

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The casing is slightly sticky, smells of raspberries and icing sugar and is made of gold. Plain, but for the small S.H. engraved on the front and the even smaller Holmes family crest engraved on the back.

.

On the inside the watch needs to be wound and at some point will have to be expertly cleaned.

.

But these are just the facts, empirical data that Sherlock understands on an intellectual and strangely instinctual level.

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What he doesn't understand is the lock of hair, carefully coiled to keep its curl, tied with a royal blue ribbon and tucked inside the lid.

.

It is the exact shade of i_her/i_ hair and Sherlock knows unerringly, where she cut it from.

.

_Left side, from just above the ear. It had exactly 3 and a half curls and a solitary thin white hair mixed in with all the darker ones._

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John finds him in the living room still frowning slightly at the lock of hair held in his left hand, the watch almost forgotten in his right.

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"I..." Sherlock began, "Her hair..."

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John doesn't bother to hide his smirk. "Congratulations."

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"What?" The consulting detective has rarely been so confused.

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"I can't be sure, but," John let his gaze fall on the items in Sherlock's hands, "I think she just said yes."

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* * *

The end... really this time...maybe...

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	5. Chapter 5

.

Disclaimer: I have a cat and a room full of books. Almost everything else belongs to someone else. Recognisable characters, TV shows, movies, etc belong to their creators (in some cases otherwise known as god), producers, directors, etc.

* * *

.

.

.

Encounters With The Woman.

.

.

.

Or

.

.

.

The Five Times John Watson Almost Met Irene Adler

And The First Time He Did.

.

.

Fifth

* * *

.

.

.

There were 56 people at Sherlock's memorial service.

The Woman made 57.

Irene arrived a few sentences into Mycroft's eulogy, giving everyone the impression of a wife not invited to her husband's funeral.

She took Mycroft's empty seat, glared at Not!Anthea, who quickly vacated the chair next to Mycroft's and glanced at John, surprised that he'd needed the hint.

John swallowed a grin and joined her.

Irene wore a pair of bright red heels and a slinky black _Jessica Rabbit_ dress.

Which would have distracted John more, if she hadn't also been wearing Sherlock's coat.

The one he'd worn up to Reichenbach, and they hadn't been able to find afterwards.

"Dreadful, isn't it?" Irene slumped in her chair and crossed her legs, pouting up at Mycroft. As if she wished he'd shut up or at least get to the good bits.

John coughed to hide his smirk.

Sherlock hadn't been able to attend the service, so he'd sent a representative instead.

"On a scale of 1 to 10, how bored is he?"

"Dr. Watson," Irene tried to look innocent and clueless, the corners of her mouth almost twitching up into a smile, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"That bad is it?"

"You have no idea."

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Thankyou kaazie


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I have a cat and a room full of books. Almost everything else belongs to someone else. Recognisable characters, TV shows, movies, etc belong to their creators (in some cases otherwise known as god), producers, directors, etc.

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Encounters With the Woman.

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Zero...

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The first time Sherlock Holmes sees Irene Adler she's standing, on a London street.

She sings with a slight accent, but by the time he can finally identify it, she'll no longer have one.

The song isn't what he'd expect.

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"_Fly the ocean on a silver plane._

_See the jungle when it's wet with rain. _

_Just remember till you're home again._

_You belong to me."_

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He wasn't expecting her eyes either.

She has eyes like his, wide and all seeing, that give away nothing.

Watching him, watching her.

She disappears while he's talking to an informant.

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The next morning, the jewellers across from her corner is missing half of its merchandise.

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...

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It's been nearly 13 months since he saw her on the street corner.

She's still singing, this time in an odd, out of the way nightclub.

_._

"_Can't make up my mind about this guy. _

_Sometimes he makes me smile, sometimes he makes me cry._

_Other guys have tried, but he's the one I like._

_I'm so mad about this guy."_

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Sherlock ignores his dealer and the drunken woman trying to catch his interest and watches _the woman_ instead.

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...

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Sherlock's eyes open, spying the other person in the room immediately, a person who shouldn't have been there.

"Irene Adler," The woman supplied, glancing at him over the top of the book she was skim reading.

It's one of his, a collection of Victorian essays on the 'Hysterical Condition of the London Lower Classes'.

"It's not too bad if you forget that one half of the authors are misogynistic and the other half wouldn't know what a woman looked like even if she presented herself naked at the dining table with an illustrated instruction booklet."

"How did you get in?" _She, Irene, has long fingers, the nails painted peacock blue. Her shoes are the same colour. The rest of her outfit is grey._

"Keys." She held up copies of his own.

"What do you want?"

"How utterly dull." She reached into her coat pocket, handing him a business card, "I don't want anything, but I thought you might be able to use this."

_Stephen L. Yates_

_5/10 Ellison Avenue_

"Your missing witness. His grandfather got caught in a scam and ended up with rather a lot of debt. Mr. Yates is growing cannabis under the back stairs to help pay all the bills and doesn't want the police or his grandfather to find out." She closed the book with a snap, putting it down as she picked up a scarf from where he'd dropped it, looping it around her neck and heading toward the front door before he can stop her, voice muffled by the bookcases in the hallway, "Maybe I did want something after all, darling."

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...

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He has to stitch her up the next time they meet. 14 stitches in total.

A knife wound that traces the angle of her ribs.

Irene is slumped against the fridge, smoking one of his emergency cigarettes and holding one of his shirts- _Mycroft gave it to him last Christmas, he's never even worn it-_ pressed against her side.

He's moved since she last made an appearance and for less than a second Sherlock wonders how Irene knew where to find him and how she got in. But that's not important right now.

Considering the unfocused look in her eyes and the paleness of her skin she's attempting to self medicate.

_Nicotine is a vasoconstrictor._

Judging by the amount of blood soaking his shirt and the rest of her clothes, she should have headed straight for a hospital instead.

"Darling." Irene flashes a bright, fake smile at him, "Sorry to be such a bother."

Sherlock kneels down beside her, calmly undoing her shirt to inspect the damage. Her skin is covered in bruises and he contemplates calling an ambulance or watching her bleed out.

_But then he'd never know why she calls him darling or steals his scarves._

"O positive." She says before fainting.

He calls in a favour instead of an ambulance.

_Sherlock is A negative._

She slips out the door; leaving £500 for the blood donor, while he's in another room texting a highly annoyed Lestrade.

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Sherlock almost finds her in Paris, having just run an insurance scam worth nearly £2 million. Half went to an orphanage on the city's outer edge. The woman in charge is happy to talk until Sherlock mentions Irene.

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The embassy job in Moscow is deliciously complicated. Irene pulled three different cons, seduced a general, and managed to convince a museum full of experts that her badly faked painting is the real deal.

The fake gets hung in the general's living room and the original; stolen by the Nazi's in 1941, is returned to the daughter of the previous owner.

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She plays the mistress of an A list actor in Los Angeles, a back-up singer in Houston and a bartender in New York.

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He loses her in Western Australia and just misses her leaving Singapore.

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Seven months later Irene lets Sherlock conduct a survey of her skin.

She's younger than he'd thought, younger than him, by five or six years.

Her hair is soft and smells like pomegranates. Her fingers, when he licks then one by one, taste like raspberry tarts, and her appendectomy scar, like peppermints, orange sherbet and moisturiser.

_Irene twitches and swallows a giggle when he uses his tongue to trace the line of it._

There's a pair of parallel scars, the width of a belt apart, on the right side of her back, a circular scar on the bottom of her left foot, directly below the one on the top of the foot. _She stepped on something; probably a nail, which went straight through her foot._

Irene's ears are pierced. The right has had an earring snatched from it.

Sherlock is investigating Irene's breasts when she falls asleep, letting him continue this _living autopsy_ at his leisure. He doesn't understand how she can be so relaxed, how she can feel safe enough to even close her eyes.

_The others: three women and two men, had stayed tense and hyper alert and had taken his inspections as a prelude to a sexual encounter. A kink they'd been willing to over look in return for going to bed with him._

Irene sees it as a chance to multi task. Steal another scarf, drop off some nicotine patches, have an actual address for food to be delivered to, to shower and change.

Even Mycroft's people have trouble identifying the woman who entered the building through a third floor window, as the one who left by the front door.

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A week later Irene strips Sherlock down, searching for his ticklish spots, and quizzing him on the timing of London traffic lights.

Lestrade brings Sherlock footage of a get-away car; reportedly driven by a young woman, that hits every green light possible. It's the first time Sherlock tells anyone the name Irene Adler.

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She leaves one of his scarves and a dozen raspberry tarts in a flat, as a reward for almost finding her. The raspberry tarts had given her away. They're from a bakery in South Bank.

Light flaky, slightly vanilla flavoured pastry and handmade raspberry filling, with a light dusting of icing sugar to give it just enough sweetness.

Sherlock estimates that he's missed her by 12minutes and 17 seconds.

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Irene is sitting in front of the TV, eating cereal and wearing his dressing gown, when Sherlock returns from insulting several police officers.

He flopped, loose limbed, over the lounge. "Why are people obsessed with sex?"

"Why are you obsessed with sex?"

Sherlock gave her, her first '_are you really that stupid'_ look. "I'm not."

"If you say so, darling." Irene put her bowl in the kitchen sink, asking, "Bad case?"

"Hmmph" He's already made himself forget half of it.

She handed him a cup of tea. "Any preferences for dinner? Savoury, spicy, sweet?"

"You're being domestic."

"Sometimes," Irene sank to the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of him, "Domestic is nice."

Sherlock sipped his tea. "I could kill you. And no one would ever know."

She shrugged, his dressing gown slipping off one slim shoulder. "And I could have drugged your drink. Lestrade's seen you high enough times to think that you might have accidentally poisoned yourself."

_True._

"Are you obsessed with sex?"

"I like sex," Irene shrugged again, letting the other side of the dressing gown slide from her other shoulder. There's a hand shaped bruise where her neck and right shoulder meet, "But I wouldn't say that I was _obsessed_ with it."

"Would you like to have sex with me? Most women do."

"You find most women boring. And you've never indicated that you've wanted to have sex with me," Irene scowled, like she'd found his comment distasteful, "So I don't consider it as a part of our relationship." She reached for the take out menus hidden under a cushion, "Can you order in?"

"What do you like about sex?" Sherlock wasn't going to let her change the subject.

Irene sighed, accepting her fate. She switched the TV off and turned so she could lean against the lounge. Sherlock lifted her hair to study the bruising.

"Orgasms are nice. So are the looks on people's faces when they realise they've heard or they think they've heard you having sex. And there's something about trusting a person enough to fall asleep afterwards."

He paused after hearing that. "You have sex with people you don't trust?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you trust me?" It seems important, but he's not sure why.

"I will trust you, until I bore you." Irene smirked, "Which won't be until you can find where I've hidden your scarves, darling."

_Or figure out why she calls him darling._

Sherlock stood suddenly, toeing his shoes off.

"Sherlock?"

"I need to see those things."

"What things?"

"...Irene..."

"Oh." Irene got to her feet, taking his hand to lead him toward the bedroom, "You want to conduct an experiment."

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She's in the shower when he comes back to reality.

And it takes him a few minutes to realise what's out of place.

Irene isn't singing.

_She always sings in the shower._

The bathroom's cold, indicating that the hot water ran out at least 15 minutes ago.

Sherlock slips on the wet tiles. Irene makes sure he continues to the floor, pressing a stiletto against his chest.

She's naked and wet, with a bruise matching his hand wrapped around her right arm.

And there's a short cut she's had to stitch herself, running in a straight line down the centre of her chest.

Sherlock recognises his own work.

"I tried to kill you."

"No." Irene pushes the knife through his clothes, the blade teasing his skin, "You wanted to open me up and rummage around my insides, while I watched."

_Oh..._

"If you ever feel the need to relieve your boredom like that, while I'm here, ever again," Her voice shook, "I'll kill you."

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"I love the wallpaper." Irene managed to startle him, "And your landlady's a dear."

Sherlock leaned against the doorway, studying the woman. He hasn't seen her since the...incident, before he'd moved to 221b Baker Street.

"You pretended to be interested in 221c, to gain access to the building."

She rolled her eyes.

"I picked her pockets at the shops. Did you know there's a bakery, round the corner and down a bit, that makes those raspberry tarts I like?"

_He hadn't_.

"Are you staying long?'

"My taxi will be here any minute," Irene picked up an overnight bag.

"A social engagement?"

"I have to make someone nervous at a wedding." She let her coat fall open, "What do you think?"

"Blue is an appropriate colour for the event, red might be more effective though."

The doorbell ringing cut off her immediate response.

"I have to go."

Sherlock stopped her on the landing.

"It won't wait for-"

And kissed her.

Irene pulled away as the doorbell rang again.

"Well?"

"Their recipe uses more sugar."

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Almost done…

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Happy Festive Season

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Thank you to Verity Grey and Kaazie

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